WEDNESDAYS WERE Wilson’s late-start days at the university. And his first class today was even later. He had given his first class, a graduate short-story-writing class, the day off to work on their final projects—a complete short story (of at least seven pages) that they would submit to various journals and magazines for possible publication.
In the past, one or two students with actual writing ability would get picked up for publication right away, and a few others of the more middling skills would find an audience in more arcane, smaller university “literary” publications, while the majority of students would simply get rejection notices.
Most of these rejections would be chalked up by those writers who had been rejected as grievous errors made by shortsighted and elitist editors who wouldn’t know good writing if they tripped over it.
Wilson knew that to be untrue, but he no longer felt the need to set everyone straight, no longer felt the need to burst dreams and make students wonder why they had spent thousands of dollars on a graduate education.
The publishing world will take care of that, he told himself, and it doesn’t need me to protect it from inept and immature writers.
Today, during a wonderful late spring morning, with a warm breeze and the first full greening of the maple tree and its welcome shield between his house and the insufferably cheerful Heasleys, Wilson luxuriated in spending most of the morning in the kitchen, with his electronic tablet and multiple cups of coffee as he read through an entire issue of the Pittsburgh Press, the formerly preeminent Pittsburgh newspaper, now published only online.
Thurman wandered into the kitchen several times that morning, mumbling to himself, looking up at Wilson, tilting his head, snorting on occasion, all in an effort, Wilson surmised, to get his attention.
Up until now, Wilson had resisted the dog’s efforts.
The last time, Thurman walked away, back toward his bed in the den, mumbling Boring to himself over and over.
Thurman seemed to latch on to words, Wilson discovered, and repeat them over and over, as if in an effort to memorize them, or memorize how they sounded or how they were formed in a dog’s mouth.
Around 11:30, Wilson heard Thurman get up, stretch and yawn loudly, shake himself awake, his ears doing their usual flapping against the top of his head, then with methodic, careful steps amble back into the kitchen.
Wilson thought he saw a more resolute look on Thurman’s face, as if this would be the time he was successful in rousing the seated person to do…something. Go for a walk. Maybe make lunch. Maybe share his lunch.
Thurman seemed to stop at that idea—or at least Wilson thought he was stopping at that idea.
Hungry.
Wilson shook his head back at the dog.
“You had breakfast. The Internet says that dogs should only eat twice a day.”
Thurman appeared hurt.
Bunkum.
Wilson shrugged.
“Maybe so, but that’s the truth I’m going with.”
Thurman sat down, a little deflated. Perhaps a little peeved as well.
Then Wilson stood up, the chair squealing just a bit on the tile floor of the kitchen. Wilson had replaced the rose-motif linoleum decades ago with a very sturdy dark slate tile.
“Do you want to go for a walk?”
At this, Thurman lit up, bounced to all fours, did his back-end-moving-first cha-cha dance, pranced, and jumped with the joyful enthusiasm of a newborn goat.
“Okay. Once around the block.”
They got to the front door.
“Leash or no leash?”
Thurman looked up, and appeared to give the options some thought.
No leash, he grumbled, grinning.
Since Wilson and Thurman had been going for walks, Thurman was nothing short of a miracle dog on a leash, never pulling, never straining, never trying to run ahead of Wilson’s pace. A few weeks prior, Wilson had experimented with Thurman off the leash, and he’d behaved the same as on it. Walking without a leash was easier for Wilson. He did not enjoy being tethered together, being tied to someone or something else. It felt so constricting.
“All right. No leash. But no chasing things. No running into the street. Okay?”
Thurman looked up, still grinning.
Okay, he growled. Walkie-walkie-walkie.
And they set off, Thurman all but prancing at Wilson’s side, head butting his leg every few paces, growling happily, not really saying anything, but Wilson could tell that the dog was in a good mood.
And Wilson was in a similar mood.
That doesn’t happen all that often. To have a living creature here with me, and for me to be evenly modulated and almost happy. It has been a long time.
Thurman bounced and sniffed and growled his greeting to a bevy of pigeons clutching onto a set of overhead wires.
They must not have understood “dog,” because instead of chirping back, they all turned their eyes to Thurman, making sure that this was not one of those dogs that could climb trees—or fly.
The two walked on to the end of the block and turned to the north.
Midway down the block, Thurman stopped and looked to his left. Actually it was more than a look. It was as if Thurman was pointing, ready to go retrieving, following the millennia-long instinctual path of all retrievers.
Wilson turned to look.
At the top of the driveway was a figure in a wheelchair.
Thurman barked, then turned back to Wilson.
Wilson did not want to stop, did not want to engage in any conversation, but Thurman appeared so earnest, so wanting.
“Go ahead,” Wilson said softly.
Then he looked up and waved.
“He wants to say hello, Dr. Killeen. He won’t bite. At least he hasn’t so far.”
Thurman was already at the top of the drive as Wilson finished, and he bounced around the wheelchair, growling happily, sniffing, and grinning.
Dr. Killeen leaned forward as best he could and extended his right hand. Even from the street, Wilson could see the tremors. Thurman stopped and let the man put his hand on his head. He began to stroke the dog and Thurman growled his happy, contented growl.
Wilson walked up and stopped a few feet away.
“Thurman, right? That’s his name, right?” Dr. Killeen said.
Wilson nodded.
“You’ve got a good memory.”
Dr. Killeen grinned.
“It may be the only thing that still works. And I’m not so sure some days.”
Wilson nodded.
“You and me both.”
“I saw your mother again a few days ago. Walking Thurman.”
“She had him for all of two weeks and she still considers him to be her dog, I guess.”
Thurman bounced and growled, That’s right.
But Dr. Killeen did not appear to understand him.
Must be like developing an ear for a foreign language, Wilson thought.
Dr. Killeen drew his jacket closer around his chest, despite the fact that the temperature was in the mid-seventies. Wilson was not sure exactly what condition or disease or malady Dr. Killeen had. All he knew for certain was that he had been in a wheelchair for at least ten years, maybe more. He had retired from full-time pastoral work at the large Presbyterian church in Shadyside a few years before his…infirmity appeared. Wilson’s mother had attended his church for a long stretch following her husband’s death, and she had told Wilson that she liked the teaching and preaching, disliked the music. Gretna Steele did not suffer through many services where “something was off-kilter.”
“The music sounds like medieval caterwauling,” she’d said.
Wilson himself had never attended.
“And Emily Gold was with her,” Dr. Killeen said. “That was nice to see.”
Wilson did not show his surprise, but he was surprised.
“You know Emily?”
“I do. Not as well as I knew her husband. I mean, I knew them both. But more her husband.”
Thurman paced down the driveway and then back again, sniffing virtually every square inch of the bushes that lined one side.
“He was in the military, wasn’t he?”
Dr. Killeen nodded.
“Special Forces. An officer. I forget which rank. Served several tours of duty in the Middle East. Maybe in Afghanistan as well.”
Wilson listened and remained silent. He simply did not know how much to probe, how much to let happen, how much people were willing or able to tell others. So as a matter of course, he seldom asked follow-up questions, questions his mother would have had no problem in asking and re-asking until she was satisfied. Wilson guessed that it was because he’d lived with the ambiguity and uncertainty of his past, he could accept both in his daily life now.
“He’s dead, you know.”
Wilson nodded as Thurman padded up to them, his tongue lolling out to one side, appearing like a deranged participant in some manner of frat-house bender during spring break. At least that was the image that flashed in Wilson’s thoughts.
“I do. Well, my mother said she was a widow. I guess that means the same thing.”
Dr. Killeen nodded.
“It was one of the most painful experiences in my work as a pastor.”
Wilson reached down and patted Thurman, having absolutely no idea if he should ask further questions or simply look like a sympathetic listener.
“He came back to the States damaged. Not physically. But something broke. He couldn’t readjust. And I couldn’t help him. I tried. We tried. Emily. Me. And others.”
Dr. Killeen raised his left hand to push an errant wisp of hair off his forehead. His hand trembled the entire time and it appeared to Wilson that it took a great effort just to raise it up.
Then Dr. Killeen looked up at Wilson.
“You know what that’s like, don’t you, Dr. Steele? Coming back from a war.”
Wilson stepped back. In the span of a second, his heart lurched and sped up, and he could feel a bead of sweat at the back of his neck.
“Maybe,” he finally said. His voice was less than a whisper. “Maybe.”
Dr. Killeen offered a weary smile in return, as if he had heard such equivocations before, as if he knew the certain futility of pressing the issue, then he looked at Thurman. “Thurman, look at me.”
Thurman did as he was asked, staring at the old man with a focused intensity that only dogs could exhibit.
“You tell him, Thurman. It has been too long. It’s time.”
Thurman appeared to nod, looked back at Wilson with a look of great compassion, then back to the old man.
He growled.
Wilson knew he said, I will.
But Wilson knew that only he and Thurman heard it.
Hazel walked down the street to her car, feeling lighter and more unfettered than she had ever felt in her adult life.
Maybe it was like this when I was a little girl. Maybe.
She got her car keys out of her pocket.
But I don’t remember it. Not really. Not this way.
She paid the parking fee with a twenty-dollar bill and drove toward town. The safe-deposit key was in her right pocket. She could feel the ridges. It was a most comfortable feeling.
She retrieved her stock certificates and asked to see Mr. Hild.
I guess I have a personal banker now.
Mr. Hild was all smiles when he escorted her to his desk.
“I didn’t expect to see you so soon,” he said.
Hazel wanted to shrug but thought that shrugging was not a proper way to deal with financial matters.
Instead, she laid the envelope on his desk.
“I want to sell it.”
Mr. Hild raised an eyebrow.
“The stock, you mean.”
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
Hazel had been sure, almost since finding out that she was now middle-class wealthy. It had not been a difficult choice. In truth, she had discovered that making a million-dollar decision was easier than making a choice of breakfast at Denny’s.
“Yes.”
Mr. Hild waited a moment, as if the waiting was a personal banker sort of behavior to ensure that clients were telling the truth.
“If I hold on to some of it, then I’ll worry about it. I’ll keep asking myself if it’s time to sell or not. And that’s not a problem I want to have. I wasn’t worried before I knew that I had it, and I don’t want to be worried now.”
Mr. Hild nodded gravely, if one could nod with a grave attitude.
“I understand.”
“I want you to sell it for me. You said no fee, right?”
“That is correct. However, it would be our hope that you may keep some of that money here at our bank. But there would be no restrictions to our offer.”
Hazel found herself smiling.
“I will keep most of it here,” she said.
“Thank you,” he replied, his relief most evident in his thanks.
“But I would like to put some of it into a checking account. Like maybe fifty thousand dollars?”
Mr. Hild appeared to breathe a great sigh of relief, without wanting to, without wanting to express his true emotions, which were obviously delight and relief.
“I want to buy a new car. And I want to sell my condo.”
“Well, fifty thousand dollars would buy a very nice car, Ms. Jamison.”
Hazel began to grow more comfortable with the whole stock-rich-personal banker sort of feeling.
“Actually, I just want to get an older delivery van. Reliable. But used.”
Mr. Hild nodded and probably would have asked why, but that also might be a question that personal bankers don’t ask their newly wealthy clients.
“I’m not going to make deliveries, of course. But I want to put a bed in back, and maybe get a little stove where I could make coffee.”
“So you’ll do some camping, then?”
“Heavens no,” Hazel replied. “I just want a place to rest. If I get tired driving. I plan on doing some traveling. My mother always said she wanted to travel and never did, not really.”
Mr. Hild looked a little jealous, or envious, as she spoke of her plans.
“So you’ll go out and explore America?”
“Something like that,” Hazel said. “I want to look for the truth.”
And after a moment, Mr. Hild took the envelope with the Apple stock.
“Let me get you a receipt for this. And then I’ll call the bank’s stock traders. We’ll have an accurate amount of the total for the sale within a few hours, probably. This sort of stock sells quickly.”
Maybe I don’t know what’s it is like coming back from a war, Wilson thought as he stood by the coffee maker waiting for the little light to show up that would tell him the unit was ready to brew coffee. Maybe I’ve forgotten. Maybe I never remembered.
He jabbed at the button on the coffee maker, missing it on his first attempt.
Maybe I don’t want to remember.
Thurman continued eating as Wilson spoke his internal dialogue. Obviously, he had watched Wilson as he stormed about the kitchen that afternoon.
Wilson would not have called it “storming.”
Something much less than storming. Maybe a little disturbed. But not tempestuous. Or raging. Perturbed. That’s it. That’s the word. Perturbed.
Thurman was having none of it, apparently, and as he finished his dog treats he sat by the refrigerator and stared at Wilson, a most…disappointed look on his face, if disappointment was a possible emotion for a dog to exhibit.
Thurman appeared to have that ability, however, to reflect whatever emotion he was feeling, from disappointment to joy, from melancholy to choleric, from unctuous to felicitous.
Wilson pretended to glower at the dog, and wondered if a less literate owner would attribute any of those complex emotions to a mere canine companion.
Probably not, he thought and slumped at his usual chair at the kitchen table.
Thurman simply stared at him.
Then he growled, Emily.
Wilson’s glower did not abate.
“Emily? You’re asking about Emily?”
Thurman growled again.
Maybe.
Wilson pushed his coffee cup to one side.
“I don’t see why you’re asking about that. Or her, I should say.”
Thurman shook his head, then snorted, and whisper-growled.
Past, he growled, looking over his shoulder. Then Not past, staring hard at Wilson.
“What? What are you talking about?” Wilson said, his voice more forceful than it had ever been since Thurman’s arrival. And louder. Not a shout, not yet. Wilson was not a man who shouted, but these words were hard-edged, and louder than Thurman liked. But Thurman was not cowed, not in the least. He would not slink off thinking he had done something bad, because he had not. He met Wilson’s glare with his own focused stare.
“What? What do you want from me?” Wilson asked, gesturing wide with his left hand, something he seldom did—gesturing at all, with any hand.
Thurman waited a long time. Then he stood and growled a long, nuanced growl, with stops and starts and peaks and valleys.
Past. Now. Move. Deal.
Thurman stood up and walked to Wilson. He butted his head against his thigh.
Hiding.
Wilson looked down at the dog. He didn’t want to soften, but there was something about those big golden liquid eyes that drew the truth out.
“But I don’t want to remember. It’s too…hard. Too much pain.”
Thurman nodded as if he understood.
Then he turned his head up and stared, not at the ceiling, but at the heaven beyond the ceiling. The dog’s eyes seemed to focus on something far away, something that reflected peace and calm.
Wilson knew what he was looking at. He could tell from the tilt of his head and the comfort he could see in those dark eyes.
“God?” Wilson said. “You’re talking about God now? Some sort of comforting divinity?”
Thurman smiled. It was not a joyous smile but a smile of comfort.
Wilson shook his head this time.
“No. Don’t you start on this go-to-church-and-find-peace bunkum too. My mother has mentioned that I should just go ahead and take advantage of some manner of divine relief more than enough times over the years. I think she actually believes that it could happen—that I would suddenly be ‘better’ if all I did was turn to Jesus. That’s not going to happen.”
He stood up and left his coffee on the table, a half-cup remaining.
“I don’t want to remember, Thurman. And I won’t.”
Thurman had not backed away. He waited until Wilson was out of the room, but still within earshot.
He ambled to his bed in the den, growling. Growling louder than he normally did, in order that someone else in the house would hear his admonitions.
Remember. Talk. Remember. Talk. Remember. Talk.
By the time Hazel had lunch at Denny’s, walked down to the park along the Willamette River, and came back to the bank, her stocks had been sold.
They actually sold for more than what Mr. Hild had first quoted only a few days before.
“Stocks go up. Stocks go down. No one really knows why,” Mr. Hild said. “You happened to sell when they were up. Good news for you.”
She signed all the paperwork, set up a checking account with a small portion of the proceeds, and placed the rest into a series of certificates of deposit.
“They’re insured, aren’t they?” Hazel asked. “Just in case, you know…”
Mr. Hild nodded.
“We actually use an outside insurance group for sums of this level. A little more expensive for the bank, but these agencies do not set limits on the amount insured. So all your funds will be safe…in case something untoward was to happen here at Umpqua. Which it won’t.”
Hazel had no idea if any of this was standard protocol. And she had no idea of what an “untoward” event meant in the world of Umpqua banking. But she had not worried much about banking and finance and the security of deposits before this moment, and probably would not start worrying about any of those things in the future.
Hazel was not a worrier by nature.
She now had a personal personal banker, who knew her name and who had fetched, or had some other lesser personal banker fetch, a chilled bottle of water for her so she would stay hydrated during the process of signing her name many multiple times.
And now, after all that, after all the newly rich financial dealings had been concluded, she returned to her small condo, dropped her purse on the dining table, and looked around—this time with a more critical eye. It was not as if she was finding fault with where she lived, or looking now with disdain on her modest dwelling or modest possessions in particular. It was that she now had the freedom to leave this place…forever, if she wanted, and not have to worry about coming up with the means of financing another place to live.
She walked to the window in her living area, which also contained her dining area. The window faced west, toward the ocean, sort of, though the ocean was more than two hours distant. What she could see most clearly was the parking lot of a strip mall with a convenience store, a branch bank, a dry cleaner, and an outpost of a chain sandwich shop.
She had her couch placed facing away from the window.
Sunsets were usually pleasant, until you came close to the window and were faced with too much local detail.
“Maybe I could find a place on the ocean. Or the river. Something small. I don’t need much.”
The sun was midway to setting.
“When I come back, that is. When I come back to Portland.”
A large semi truck pulled into the parking lot below, sounding its horn several times, for no apparent reason.
“If I come back to Portland.”
She thought about making coffee, but decided against it. She thought about having a glass of wine, as a celebration, but realized that the one bottle of wine she owned was nearly three years old and left over from a “buy some of our overpriced jewelry” party that she had cohosted with an acquaintance from work.
She didn’t take that idea any further, realizing that she did not own a corkscrew. And she had never developed a taste for wine.
Instead, she decided on tea.
“Something to calm my nerves.”
She rummaged about and found a dry, wrinkled, probably old chamomile tea bag.
“Better than nothing,” she said as she switched on the electric kettle.
The tea brewed and Hazel sat at her dining table, looking to the west. Her computer sat on that table as well.
On the wall facing her was a framed diploma, representing her two-year stint at the Portland Community College. From there, she had migrated to the insurance agency, which brought her to today.
“Not much of a life’s arc, is it?” she said, with a touch of regret.
Hazel was not a person who let regrets fester. She considered herself a realist. Maybe an optimistic realist.
There had been a boyfriend, right after her community college days, a boyfriend of almost four years. There must have been reasons why they drifted apart, but Hazel could not recall any of them at the moment. There were other dates, and a few other ill-suited suitors over the years.
“You don’t encounter many options working at an insurance agency.”
The computer sat there, dark. She had resisted going online to meet a man. She resisted being set up—or at least resisted the few times a friend asked her about going on a double date with “a really nice guy,” as they would tell her. “And he’s almost done with his parole and/or community service and/or anger management counseling and/or contentious divorce proceedings.”
She wondered if she had been described as having lots of “spirit” and being “loyal,” like a middle-aged dog put up for adoption.
She sipped at her tea.
“So what do I do now?”
Whatever closed doors and out-of-reach options had existed before this moment were now open. Finances? No longer a problem. Dead-end job? Not any longer. Confusion over her past?
“Well, that’s still there.”
Hazel slipped around to her computer, switched it on, and waited for the machine to whirr into life.
Why didn’t you sell that stock, Mom? You could have had such an easy life.
The screen blinked once and Hazel tapped in her password, which was “HAZEL.”
How many people are named Hazel these days? I think not too many.
Were you doing some sort of penance for having an “illegitimate” baby? But you were married, right? Surprise, surprise. Or maybe there was someone else?
She tapped at the keyboard and Google came up.
“I don’t get it. Not at all. None of this makes sense, Mom. None of it.”
She sighed, then began to type “f-a-c-”…and Google decided that she was looking for the Facebook website, almost before Hazel knew it.
Darkness had settled over Squirrel Hill by the time Wilson came back downstairs. He had spent the last several hours lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling, not thinking, not being angry, not being sad, not being scared, just staring. Just being, no feeling, no thought.
That skill of being “nowhere” had been developed over the years, and Wilson had grown adept at it.
Thurman was sitting in the kitchen when he entered.
Hungry.
“I know, Thurman. It’s after dark and you haven’t eaten. I was afraid that you might have passed out from hunger by now.”
Thurman looked at him with a squirrel-tight face that Wilson interpreted as showing that the dog did not appreciate his sarcasm.
Thurman simply growled Hungry again.
“I get it, Thurman,” Wilson replied. “You hold grudges. Okay, I get it. You don’t want to laugh and make up.”
Thurman shook his head and bounded to Wilson in a flash and had his paws on his chest before Wilson could react, and his tongue was out, trying to catch Wilson’s face, an activity that Wilson did not really enjoy, which Thurman knew, but most often he could not help himself.
“Okay, okay,” Wilson said, running his hand over Thurman’s head. “It’s okay. We’re okay. Now let me get your dinner.”
With that, Thurman hopped back and sat by his bowl, waiting with smiling joy for his usual kibble dinner.
He was not disappointed and set into it with enthusiasm.
As the dog ate, Wilson peered inside the refrigerator, wondering if he was hungry and wondering if he had any easily consumable food in there.
He did not.
But the search gave him the time to decide he really was not hungry, not really, so he took an apple from the fruit basket on the counter and sat at the table and began to eat.
Any biting or chewing brought Thurman to attention—that is, any biting or chewing that did not originate with Thurman. The dog stopped eating, looked up, and sniffed. He stared at Wilson, then decided that the thing Wilson was eating was not worth his effort to stop eating his real meal and investigate.
Thurman had tasted apples before and had decided that they were not proper food for dogs, or at least not for him, so if Wilson wanted to eat the entire thing and not share even a nibble with him, he was okay with that.
They both finished eating at about the same time. Wilson made coffee while Thurman ran his tongue over his mouth and nose and tried his best to remove all kibble crumbs from his snout.
When Wilson was seated back at the kitchen table, Thurman walked a little closer and sat down.
Emily, he growled, or at least that was what Wilson thought he growled.
“What about her?” Wilson asked. “And why are you so interested in her?”
Thurman tilted his head to the side as if concentrating.
Then he smiled and growled, Pretty.
Wilson shrugged.
“I guess. In that Middle Eastern way. She’s from Israel, you know. At least that’s what my mother said. I think.”
It was obvious to Wilson that Thurman wanted to shrug at that information, but he lacked the proper shoulder blades and bone structure to do it well. Instead he simply stared back at Wilson. Wilson was fairly certain that dogs were not all that interested or knowledgeable about international geography.
Sad, he growled.
Wilson looked at the dog.
I am going crazy, Wilson thought to himself. I am. Having conversations with a dog. I know it’s just me…talking to me. Like Dr. Limke said. Pressure. Guilt. It’s a toxic stew and I’m just reacting to that by talking to myself using the dog as a substitute for my own subconscious. I’m making this all up. To exorcise my demons. Right?
Thurman growled, Not right.
Well, Thurman, it’s just me talking to me. And so what if it is?
“Why is she sad?” Wilson asked. “And how can you tell?”
Thurman made a point of lifting his snout into the air and sniffing loudly, for effect.
“You can smell sad?”
Thurman smiled, a half-smile, and nodded.
“It’s all because of my mother, you know.”
Thurman smiled anytime Wilson mentioned his mother.
“When I came back…way back then…my mother tried her best. She thought an aspiring writer and a future college professor had to be matched up with someone. She thought it would help. You know…with adjusting. The first few years were difficult, Thurman. And she thought a wife would be a good anchor. Someone to mediate my problems. So, Thurman, there have been other ‘Emilys’ over the years.”
Thurman appeared puzzled.
Emily, he growled.
“They were all nice. But it never lasted. My fault, it has always been my fault.”
Thurman growled, Yes.
“Then my father died and my mother moved to Florida to escape the cold and came back a few years later to escape the heat.”
Why? Thurman whisper-growled.
“She said it was too far, too buggy, and too old.”
Thurman smiled, but Wilson was pretty sure he did not know why he was smiling.
Probably just because I’m talking about my mother.
“Then I got tenure. She moved to her apartment at the Cranky Old Jewish People’s Heritage Square, and that was that.”
Thurman walked over and bumped his head into Wilson’s thigh. It was his way of introducing a change in conversation, Wilson surmised.
Remember.
“No. Thurman, you don’t understand. It is simply too hard. And I don’t want to.”
Thurman’s face tightened.
Emily.
Wilson could not help but smile at the dog’s prunelike visage.
“Thurman, you are not a dog that discourages easily, you know that?”
Thurman’s tail began to twitch and wag, leading Wilson to think that he had no idea of what “discourage” even meant.